


What to do when your best mate is framed for murder: a guide for werewolves

by Harihat



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Crack Crossover, Everybody Lives, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, M/M, Murder Mystery, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:34:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21698581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harihat/pseuds/Harihat
Summary: Sirius would never betray his friends, Remus knows it, James (presumably) knew it and Peter (wherever he’s got to) knew it. Unfortunately, the ministry, the minister and even Dumbledore himself do not seem all that interested in knowing it. Perhaps this Muggle Detective with a flair for the improbable can help.
Relationships: Alice Longbottom/Frank Longbottom, Castiel/Dean Winchester, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1-  In which Remus thinks something is very badly up with what apparently happened over in Godric’s Hollow.

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s note: For continuity, the events of Godrics Hollow 1981 have been moved to October 2010. (Sherlock Season 1, Supernatural Seaaon 6)

##  Chapter 1- In which Remus thinks something is very badly up with what apparently happened over in Godric’s Hollow.

If there were three things that Remus couldn’t stand, it was hangovers, rain and the full moon.

Watching fat raindrops pelt against the windshield of the world’s crappiest Ford Fiesta through his fingers as they cradled his throbbing temples, he firmly decided that all he needed now was a freak lunar phenomenon and it was officially a  _ no good, awful, very bad day. _

Undercover auror work was definitely not all it was cracked up to be.

With a yawn and a stretch that gave rise to a highly alarming number of creaks and popping noises, he stirred his aching limbs into action and tried to take stock of his surroundings.

This stretch of St John’s Wood had been bustling when he’d staggered back to his car, clutching a bottle of something that tasted suspiciously like drain cleaner but now it was eerily empty in the weak dawn light. Sighing, Remus pushed the ratty picnic rug he’d been curled up under into the passenger side footwell and cast a quick cleaning charm to make himself a little more presentable.

Three nights of this and he was no closer to actually finding any evidence to bring to the man who they said could get to the bottom of any mystery. A man who, he had been told, could eliminate the impossible until what remained, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.

Remus scratched the back of his neck and sighed. Who would ever have imagine that a muggle could be quite so elusive? He was barely a stone’s throw from Baker Street and the numerous spies he knew the ministry had posted nearby. Was it too much to hope that Sherlock bloody Holmes would need to walk 200 yards and buy milk at some point?

Then there had been the absolutely useless forays into the local pubs. No self-respecting ministry official would ever be found in a muggle drinking establishment - which should have made them prime locations to find out a little more about his quarry. Unfortunately, the only people he’d managed to corner about the man were strangely dismissive and, after being bought many,  _ many _ rounds of drinks had only spoken of the mysterious detective in order to warn Remus to stay far, far away from him.

Staying far away from Sherlock Holmes wasn’t a luxury that Remus had if he ever wanted to see his best friend again.

“Bloody hell, Padfoot.” he grumbled, trying to fix the few strands of hair that had somehow completely eluded his grooming spell. “What on earth have you got me into this time?”

He only wished that Sirius was around to get him into anything at all. Or at least anywhere other than a secure facility in the middle of the North Sea.

Remus shuddered. If he was going to get the job at hand done he was going to have to stay focused. And he wasn’t going to stay focused by sitting here and dwelling on how his life had fallen apart so very, very spectacularly. 

It really was astonishing how that kept on happening. It was almost as if he were cursed.

He snorted to himself. 

_ Otherwise  _ cursed.

The rain seemed to worsen in sympathy. With an anticipatory wince, Remus retrieved his muggle umbrella from the back seat of the car, smoothed the worst creases out of his overcoat, and climbed out into the leafy backdrop of St John’s Wood.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Although Remus did not yet know it, he was in luck. Sherlock had returned from his latest case early that morning and was busy enjoying himself back at 221B Baker Street.

There were three things Sherlock Holmes enjoyed most on a dreary November Sunday morning:

  * Annoying Detective Anderson without bothering to leave his front room
  * Tea that had been brewed to precisely the right temperature and not just shoved in a mug like that awful tripe that John sometimes made; and,
  * News of a terrible and mysterious death of an unexplained nature



He knew from the volley of annoyed text messages that lit up his phone in a disjointed melody, as he took leisurely sips of darjeeling from his favourite mug, that Inspector Lestrade had been bending John’s ear all morning about some random client of Sherlock’s harassing poor Anderson in a bar or something ludicrous like that.

Excellent. Now all he needed was news of a spontaneous human disembowelment and he could officially call it a most excellent day.

Strange incidents had been called in all over London in the last few days, but there was little that wasn’t predictable, boring or dull.

People in strange clothing? Undoubtedly a cult of some kind. Fireworks in broad daylight? Bonfire night was last week and the world was full of people who could be described as chronologically challenged. As for whatever nonsense that had been about flying objects in the sky - utter nonsense. 

No, what he needed was a real mystery. One he could really get his teeth into.

Perhaps figuring out what on earth was going on with the strange man in Speedy’s. That was, the man in pajamas and a suit jacket who was drinking coffee at a table in Speedy’s in what was clearly supposed to be a non suspicious manner.

It was deeply,  _ deeply _ suspicious.

But also - boring. 

He was confident he would discover the meaning of it all after he’d finished his tea. Perhaps he could persuade John to wager whether or not they were Russians this time. 

Retrieving his phone from the coffee table, Sherlock scrolled through the texts of the morning with vague interest.

Lestrade had some questions - dull

Anderson was upset by something - dull (but also highly excellent)

A mysterious stranger had been asking after him - less dull, but not exactly straightforward as far as cases went.

With a sigh, Sherlock placed his phone face down and stretched his arms out above his head - relishing in the crack of his bones as he did so.

Perhaps he should summon John back. Night shifts with the Metropolitan Police were all very well, but there was only so only one could spend discussing the state of the world with a tin of digestive biscuits. 

It was at that moment the doorbell rang.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and put his feet up. Honestly, it simply wasn’t on for John to go gallivanting off all night and leave him to answer his own door. 

“Mrs Hudson!”

There was no response. Goodness,  _ she _ couldn’t be off having a life as well could she? No, surely not.

The doorbell trilled a second time, then cut off abruptly. The sound of the previously locked front door banging open spurred him into action at last.

He was on his feet and reaching for the nearest heavy object when he heard footsteps approaching, light on the hardwood floors of 221B.

A polite cough: the owner was clearly British, that much was obvious. Not one of the double agents he had dealt with over the years had ever mastered a perfectly English cough. What’s more, the man sounded young, and a little rough around the edges. Not so much in an ill way as a tired and unkempt sort of way.

“Yes?” Sherlock called to this mysterious shadow in the hallway. He wasn’t usually one to take much interest in mysterious shadows but, as this one had just waltzed in through a locked door he felt that he may as well be polite to it. Just in case it turned out to be vaguely interesting.

The owner of the mysterious shadow stepped forward into the room. Unkempt had been an accurate deduction - the man looked as though he had spent a few nights sleeping rough (or at least close to it) and it didn’t suit him. He had, however, at least made an effort to scrub up before coming to visit.

“Mr Holmes?”

Sherlock didn’t respond to such a ridiculous question. Who else, exactly, would be sat at Sherlock Holmes’ kitchen table at 6:30am? Obviously this man, whoever he was, was well aware that he was Sherlock Holmes. The fact he needed to ask at all was, quite frankly, irritating.

“I’ve been told that you’re the best mug- the best detective there is.”

If this man thought flattery was his strong suit, he was sorely mistaken. Why on earth did he have to keep on stating the obvious. Of course he was the best there was - that was, presumably, the reason that this strange man was wandering around his home uninvited in the first place, wasn’t it?”

  
“I have a problem.”

Again, with the obvious. People very rarely turned up at the door of 221B because their lives were all sunshine and rainbows. Generally, their problems were their own special shade of dull.

“It relates to the death of my friends.”

It was at this point that Sherlock looked up for the first time with genuine interest. A death you say? Pray tell, was it particularly mysterious? Was there foul play involved? If the victim was, of course, truly dead. Those were often the very best ones.

“They say they know who did it, that it is a open and shut case, but there’s something strange going on - there really is.”   
  


Sherlock instantly felt his interest waning. An open and shut case? Clearly the police had, by some miracle, already solved this one and the gentleman before him simply could not accept the result. He’d seen plenty of similar cases, certainly, but they rarely resulted in anything more interesting than an extramarital affair.

The scruffy man must have taken his silence as his leave to continue, because he began pacing and wringing his hands as if what he had to say next was painful to him in some way.

“The people who say Sirius is guilty - they don’t know about Peter. They do not know what he can do. They’re so sure that Sirius killed James and Lily that they won’t even consider another explanation.”

“And what explanation is that?” Sherlock asked at last. His interest had wavered, but he did  _ so _ enjoy a good murder.

“I think he turned into a rat, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock blinked.

“Oh, sorry, I should have mentioned. Peter is a wizard.”


	2. Chapter 2 - In which Dean Winchester doesn’t do tubes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus isn't the only one looking to hire Sherlock. Dean Winchester is up to his eyeballs in hell-hound shredded bodies and could really use some help. Fortunately, Sherlock loves a good mauling.

##  Chapter 2 - In which Dean Winchester doesn’t do tubes.

Central London wasn’t exactly what you’d call a Dean Winchester friendly place. 

First of all, there was never anywhere to park. 

Secondly, there was the small matter of the congestion charge (and no, Dean didn’t  _ care _ that the fines could be Angel-magicked away, it was the  _ principle _ damnit) 

Thirdly, there was the London Underground. What in the hell even  _ was _ the London Underground all about. Weren’t Brits supposed to like their personal space? Had anyone told that to the guy whose backpack had been awkwardly shoved into Dean’s face the entire way up from Waterloo. 

As for the chorus of tutting he’d got for taking all of three seconds to find his Oyster Card,  _ well _ … he’d been felt less judged walking into a public area covered in intestines than he had at that precise moment. 

Still, all the more reason to get the job done quickly, he supposed. The sooner he and Sam found whoever was behind this recent spate of hell hound maulings, the sooner they could both go home.

Dean checked the address on the back of the business card and frowned. 221B Baker Street.

It seemed like a fairly safe assumption that the Baker Street tube station would take you to Baker Street, but he’d already been burned by that kind of insane logic multiple times since his arrival (okay, okay, so there was very little to do with the Beatles at Liverpool Street, or Abbey Road Station - that didn’t give Sam the right to roll his eyes and look quite so smug about it).

Seriously though, why were there two different stations called Bethnal Green anyway? Or Edgeware Road?

That wasn’t even getting started on “Cyprus”. That was clearly a bit of false advertising by anyone’s standards.

Dodging the early (but still somehow angry) commuters, Dean spun slowly to survey the numerous exits that he could pick from. Presumably at least one of them led up to Baker Street.

Two of them did, apparently: Baker Street North and Baker Street South. Very helpful.

He opted for the route that looked to have the least steps. At least that way he could conserve some energy for running back around London when it inevitably turned out that Baker Street was in another country or something.

Baker Street itself (assuming he was, in fact, stood on it) at least seemed quite nice. Soaking wet, mind you, but quite nice all the same. 

Pulling his jacket up for shelter, Dean peered left and right through the rain in the hopes of picking out a house number or two. He didn’t have much luck - tiny print and curly, delicate fonts seemed to be the order of the day.

What kind of super detective person made themselves so hard to find? Presumably the sort of people who needed to employ detective were not, by default, the sort of folk who were actually any good at finding people or they wouldn’t be outsourcing in the first place.

Dean ducked against the rain and ran across the deserted road to the nearest house actually displaying a plaque of some kind.

  1. Close enough, but far enough that he was going to be squelching all the way up the stairs when he finally found this Sherlock Holmes person.



It was a stupid idea of Sam’s anyway. Why would some detective be able to help them find a demon? In all his blog there hadn’t exactly been many mentions of the supernatural, let alone anything along the lines of “oh, and then it turned out that a demon did it after all.”

Sure, he’d had a point that a detective into “weird stuff” might be able to point them in the direction of one or two weird cases that hadn’t made the papers yet, but would he really know what he was looking at?

He really should have fought Sam harder for that weird-as-hell explosion case that had killed a dozen or so people and been blamed on a gas leak. A gas leak. It had taken Sam ten minutes to pull up where the London gas mains were and realise that that was total bullcrap. So something had killed a whole bunch of people and the government were keen to hush it up - now that sounded like their kind of thing.

Playing nice with some poncy British detective did not, however, sound like his sort of thing at all.

Dean snuck a glance to the side. Number 193. The rain was starting to soak through his socks.

Number 201. 211. 217… wait a minute.

Even on the almost deserted street, there were people watching what he guessed was the window of 221B. Interesting. 

The first man was wearing a strange collection of clothing and appeared to be reading a newspaper upside down. He was tapping at the pages with a confused expression inbetween sneaking what he (wrongly) seemed to think were subtle glances up at the middle window.

The other lady was drinking from what was clearly an empty coffee cup and pretending to call for her cat. Interesting.

For reasons more motivated by not contracting pneumonia than any real sense of urgency, Dean jogged the last few steps up to 221 and rapped his knuckles against the door. He was acutely aware that both the spies on the opposite side of the street had immediately straightened up and taken notice of him. Clearly they were expecting someone, if not specifically him.

After what seemed like an age, a lady in slippers who looked to be in her early seventies opened the door and frowned.

“Oh, hello there dear. Are you here for Sherlock?”

Dean was aware that he must look a bit of a picture, but plastered on his best smile regardless and did his best.

“Yes ma’am”

The woman surveyed him with a quizzical expression. “Oh, you’re an American. My first husband was an American.” she chuckled to herself at her own private joke before holding the door open so he could step inside. “I am afraid Mr Holmes has just finished with another client, you might need to wait a little while. Cup of tea?”

There was something faintly unsettling about this woman, but he was freezing so Dean nodded empathically. 

“Good, Take a seat by the fire, dear.”

Even if this lady was planning to murder him, drying off by the fire sounded absolutely idea and so he followed her into a cosy looking room that seemed as though it belonged in one of those popular period dramas that Dean most definitely  _ did not watch _ . There was a worn sofa that still looked as though it retained every bit of its comfiness and a toasty fireplace that he could feel radiating out warmth from the moment he stepped out of the hall. Carefully, Dean peeled off his soaking wet shoes and socks and place them up against the fireguard in the hopes that he wouldn’t have to force damp socks back on later.

“Oh dear, you are a bit on the soggy side, aren’t you? Let me see if I can not find you a towel.”

With that, she turned and trotted off, leaving him standing awkwardly in front of the fire.

If this was a famous detective’s residence, then the guy really wasn’t plowing his profits back into interior design. Still, the place was warm and dry so right about then he was more than willing to count his blessings.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

John was going to be sorry he’d missed out on this one.

Honestly, you call someone an idiot  _ just once _ (well, once since Wednesday, anyway) and they go off in a huff and decide that they’d rather go and gather evidence with Inspector Lestrade instead of talking to you. Some people really needed to stop being so sensitive. And there really hadn’t been any need to throw a pickled egg at him on the way out. That had been lunch. 

Or had it been the experiment in the effects of pickling on organic substances? Either way, throwing it at someone’s face was just plain rude. There was no need to be rude.

The rather scruffy gentleman who’s just left hadn’t been rude. On the contrary, he’d been very,  _ very  _ interesting. Sherlock supposed that being interesting wasn’t  _ exactly  _ the same as being polite, but it was a very good substitute.

So there were wizards running around London and at least one of them had committed a mass murder last week. Very interesting indeed. 

Some might have expected the existence of magic to go against Sherlock’s logical mind, but in this case it all seemed very logical indeed. How could a gas main explosion occur on a site with no gas main and leave behind no explosive residue or accelerant whatsoever? Magic was, quite simply, the best explanation. And now it seemed that the scruffy man’s boyfriend had been framed for a mass murder. 

Okay, he hadn’t specifically said he was his boyfriend, but it had been rather obvious. People didn’t go running around committing wizard treason because they were clinging onto the vain hope that their very good friend was innocent of a crime they had, at first glance, probably done.

“At first glance” because there was something very interesting about the case indeed.

Sherlock certainly didn’t think much of any sort of wizarding blast expert who was buying this. A fully intact finger as the only surviving evidence? Highly irregular. He was willing to bet that a rudimentary examination of said finger was going to prove this very quickly indeed.

Of course, the scruffy gentleman wasn’t entirely sure where the wizarding world stored its evidence ( _ if  _ it stored its evidence) which was something of a stumbling block. Still, he was fairly certain that this could all get sorted out before tea if John would just hurry up and get home.

“Sherlock?”

Mrs Hudson’s voice floated up the stairs. “Sherlock, dear, there’s an American to see you. Said it had something to do with that shredded up fellow they found washed up by the Thames.”

On second thoughts, maybe the mysteriously uncharred finger could wait.

“Send him up.”

There was some distant mumbling, followed by the unmistakable pad of bare feet on hard wood floor before a suit and tie covered American did indeed appear in the doorway.

“Sherlock Holmes?”

He did  _ so _ hate it when people asked obvious questions. “Yes.”

“I’ve been told you did some work on the claw marked bodies that have been washing up all over London. The ones who-”

“Look like they’ve been fed to an industrial sized cheese grater, yes, that’s a case I’ve taken some interest in. Why? What has it got to do with you, exactly?”

The shoeless American paused, fiddling nervously with the sleeve of his jacket. “Sir, this is a matter for the Bureau as we have reason to believe that-”

“You’re not from the FBI.” Sherlock told him bluntly. “And I do not much appreciate being lied to.”

Dean drew a steadying breath. “Look, this is going to sound very strange.”

“My favourite kind of case - please continue.”

“The shredded bodies. All of them. We believe that they have come from the same perpetrator.”

“You do shock me.”

“It isn’t human.”

Sherlock folded his arms and stared down the shoeless American. It seemed a little bit much to be told that wizards existing and then run into two of them in the same day, but it wasn’t completely impossible.

“We believe these murders were executions, carried out by Hell Hounds, on the orders of a Crossroads Demon who would have been practising in London about a decade ago. He’s collecting souls now and there are probably more victims out there.”

Well, it was turning out to be a very interesting day indeed.

“Okay, Mr Not FBI. Why do you believe I would be able to help you?”

Dean drew a breath and leaned against the doorframe. “You  _ want  _ to help me?”

  
Sherlock shrugged “‘I am bored, your case sounds vaguely interesting.”

“Oh.” Dean appeared a little taken aback, “Okay. Well… we would expect a few tell tale signs of someone knowing that they are being stalked by a hell hound. Salt on doors, crucifixes on walls, that kind of thing. You seen anything like that?”

Sherlock paused. “I can make enquiries. Thank you, Mister…”

“Kravitz.” He paused and frowned as Sherlock surveyed him. 

  
“No it isn’t.”

“it is Winchester. Dean Winchester”

“Yes. It is.”

Dean fixed him with a quizzical look. “How do you do that?”

“I observe, Dean Winchester. Please do leave your number, I will be in touch.”

With that, he picked up his violin and began to play a slow melody. Dean stood and watched for a moment, before deducing that that was his cue to leave.

“Right. I'll see you around Mr Holmes.”

There was no response. To his surprise, he hadn’t really been expecting one. There was something funny about this Sherlock, but Dean kind of liked him.

Then again, kind of liking people hadn’t historically worked out very well in the past. For him, or them. 


End file.
